


one on, two out

by deadlybride



Series: kink bingo fills [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cockwarming, Edging, M/M, Pre-Series, Slight D/s Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 07:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16384007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: In the fall of 2001, Deacon gets a letter from his old friend John Winchester, asking if John's son can stay at his house for a while.





	one on, two out

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2018 SPNKinkBingo, filling the 'Cockwarming' square.

The house sits at the top of a hill, surrounded at all sides by that shortleaf pine that grows all over. The realtor made a face when Deacon bought it, way back, saying that maybe he could plant some prettier maples or something, get some color, but that's never really been his style. The pines cluster thick all up the back side of the hill where no one's been building, and there's enough of a break between his property and the neighbor a little further down the slope that he can hardly see their house, and often forgets they're there unless they build a fire and the smoke starts to rise up through the trees. It's a smallish house, two bedrooms and a dinky kitchen, but it suits Deacon's purposes. He bought it because it was cheap, and for the big porch, and up at the top of the hill mostly no one bothers him except for the school kids who come around periodically to sell bad cookie dough and worse chocolate. He buys some, regardless. Even bad chocolate's better than no chocolate at all.

He waves at Ed as he babies his truck up the hill and it's a relief when he finally pulls into his drive. Long day. Well, most of them are long. Radio's broadcasting the first game of the National League championship and it's not going great for the Braves. Chipper Jones strikes out in three easy pitches and Deacon shakes his head, turns the engine off. That Randy Johnson. Why couldn't he have come down south instead of to the desert?

It's well past dark and he has to fumble for his house key. Porch light's burnt out. He kicks mail when he swings open the door and he scoops it up, hits the switch so the lamps turn on, flicks through the junk on his way into the kitchen. Coupons, coupons, gas bill, letter from the VA, and a letter from—huh. He drops his keys on the kitchen table, drops the rest of the mail too. He doesn't know that handwriting, but it's a real letter, stamped and all, though there's no return address.

 _Hey Deacon_ , it reads, when he's got a beer in hand and his work boots off and he's sitting on the edge of his bed. _It's been a while. You know the work I've been doing. My son's in the same business. I have a job over on the west coast and I need him working in your neck of the woods. I'd appreciate it if you could give him a place to stay for a week or two. If it won't work out, that's fine, just send him on his way, but he'll earn his keep if he stays. Might fix up that shitty truck of yours, too. I still owe you, and I know I'm not the one who should be asking for favors, but it'd be a kindness._

It's not signed but Deacon knows the voice behind it. "Shitty truck, my ass," he mutters, and drops the letter on his nightstand. John Winchester. Really has been a long time. A decade maybe. No return address and he doesn't know the man's phone number—and hell, maybe he doesn't even have a phone number, John's been moving in mysterious ways for quite a few years now—and he tries to imagine the son, coming his way. Well, it's not like he'll turn the kid away. Hotel Deacon, open for business. Hopefully the boy's not a pain in the ass. Dad like John, Deacon doubts it.

He peels out of his work uniform and settles on the couch, flicks on the TV to watch the Braves embarrass themselves through the last two innings. Supper's another beer and a box of Kraft with salsa mixed in. He falls asleep during the news, after. Wakes up half a dozen times during the night to the reassuring hum of the infomercials. A decent night. Simple. All he ever wanted.

*

Two days after the letter shows up, Deacon's making another pot of mac at the stove, listening to the ball game from the other room, when there's a knock at the door. He glances at his watch: nine o'clock, nearly. Well, then.

When he opens the door, it's a kid—young, big bruise on his cheek. "Howdy," Deacon says, through the screen, and gets a fake smile for it.

"Mr. Kaylor?" the kid says, and when Deacon raises his eyebrows, he clears his throat and tries to smile a little nicer. "I think you may have gotten a note from, uh, my dad?"

Deacon lets him stew there for a second. He's tall. Young, though too old be sent for babysitting. Brown hair, or maybe blond, and big eyes, and a mouth both too pink and too soft, good lord. "Sure did," Deacon says, after a pause, and pops the latch on the screen so it swings open. The kid catches it, pale sturdy hand, and blinks at him, startled somehow. "Come on, you're letting the cold air in."

He heads back to the kitchen and lets Winchester the younger figure out the door himself. A bang, after a second, the screen slamming back into the frame, and there's a quiet _shit_ that makes Deacon huff. His mac's usually good for dinner tomorrow, but turns out it's gonna serve two tonight. "What's your name, son?" he calls through the archway.

"Dean, sir," he gets back. _Sir_. Nice manners. "Dean Winchester."

"I figured the Winchester," Deacon says, and then Dean's there in the doorway, hovering awkwardly. "Sit down, kid."

He does, after a hesitation. Dean, okay. The older one, if Deacon remembers right, and the littler one was—Sam. That's right. Deacon stirs the mac around, watching the nuclear orange of it, and then leans hip on the stove and takes a sip of his beer. "So. You're working one of these jobs, your dad says."

"Yeah," Dean says. He chews his lip, eyes flicking around at the fridge, the linoleum, the dark hall. "Got to keep busy, right?"

Deacon watches him. Here in the better light he's got fair skin, a little pink at the ears with the chilly night outside. Freckles. Prettier than the look he's trying to pull off. His jacket collar's turned up around his jaw and he looks like he's maybe seen a few too many movies, but hell. They were all young once.

He stirs up the mac one more time. Done. "You old enough to drink?" he says, and Dean scoffs. Deacon grins down at the pot. Yeah, he remembers that too. "Grab a beer, then, and get me one too."

Noodles parted out into two bowls, forks jammed in, and Dean follows him out to the living room and wavers while Deacon drops the bowls onto the coffee table and plops down into his personal dent. "You better like baseball," he says, turning on the television, and then, "Is it too cold in here for you? Sit down, stay a while."

Dean huffs, but he peels off the jacket. Henley underneath, and some kind of necklace that swings in the center of his chest. He cracks the beers with a ring on his right hand and Deacon accepts his with a little toast. Dean echoes it, smiling just a little, and he takes a long easy swallow and licks his lips after, flick of pink tongue. Deacon focuses on the TV. Baseball and supper and a beer, good end to a long day. Quiet company or not, he's determined to enjoy it. On the other side of the couch, Dean settles in. Seventh inning, over in Arizona. Kid better root for the Braves.

*

Dean's sleeping on top of the covers on the guest bed when Deacon leaves for the jail in the morning, and there's no car in the driveway when he gets home. For a while he thinks, maybe that's it, one night only, but then there's a knock around ten o'clock when he's nodding asleep at the news and there's a boy on his porch again. "Sorry," Dean says, grimacing. That bruise isn't any better.

Deacon waves a hand, despite the yawn. "Figured you'd come and go," he says. "I got a spare key you can use. How's the job?"

There's a pause behind him, while he's turning off the TV. "I know what you and your daddy do," he says. "If that's the problem."

Didn't believe it at first. Ghosts and werewolves and who knows what else. There's more than enough crap to deal with, he didn't need that too. "It's okay," Dean says, finally, and when Deacon turns around he's got an arm wrapped loosely around his middle. "Got some leads, got some things I need to check out. Nothing I can't handle."

Dark smudged under his eyes, and he really doesn't look like he's much past being a teenager, but while Deacon's watching he squares his jaw, eyes cutting away, and—huh. Maybe not as much of a kid as he looks. Reminds Deacon a little of some of the boys back in the Corps. Seen more than their share of the world, without hardly living in it first. John looked like that when Deacon met him.

"Good to know," Deacon says. The bureau over by the big window spills over with all his junk, but he finds the spare key easy enough. He holds it out on a flat palm and Dean frowns at him, surprised, but plucks it off after a second with a brief touch of cold fingers. Kid needs a better jacket. "Grab a beer if you want. I'm headed to bed."

"Thanks," Dean says, a little late, and he's still looking down at the key when Deacon pauses in the hall.

"Hey," he says. Dean looks up. "You can stay as long as you need to. Maybe try using one of those blankets tonight, huh?"

Dean ducks his head, colors up. "Yeah," he says, nearly shy, and—god. Deacon goes to bed before he embarrasses himself. Been a long time. He's guessing that wouldn't be what John had in mind.

Saturday, Deacon sleeps late because he never, ever gets to otherwise, and it's raining when he wakes up, and it smells like bacon. When he comes down the hall in his robe, Dean's got a pan sizzling, some kind of mix happening in Deacon's only mixing bowl, and he's slim and pretty in the morning light, loose jeans and a brownish henley with the sleeves rolled up his pale arms, socks sliding over the linoleum. Deacon still can't decide what color his hair is. The back of his neck is an unblemished white.

"Morning," he says, and Dean whips around, eyes wide. Good lord.

"Hi," he gets back, and a little smile. "I hope you don't mind, I just—you had some stuff in your freezer."

"I don't mind one bit, if you've made the coffee," he says. Dean stretches up to the cupboard over the sink and gets him down a mug, pours it full. It's good—not as bitter as Deacon usually has it, and he says so, and Dean smiles more and ducks his head, turning back to the mixing bowl. That's interesting. Deacon takes another sip of the coffee, watches the kid's shoulders move, and then takes a chance and squeezes one as he steps up to the stove. "What are you up to?"

Dean's warm. He tenses a little under the touch but doesn't move away. "Pancakes," he says. "That kosher?"

"Sounds good to me," Deacon says, and squeezes one more time before he heads out into the living room, taking his coffee with him. Behind him, Dean takes an audibly deep breath, and—well. That could be very interesting.

He gets the paper from Little Rock, even if it usually piles up unread and just turns into kindling. He's halfway through the articles that interest him when Dean appears with plates, a couple of pancakes each and a thick pile of bacon, and the honey-bear Deacon plain forgot was in that cupboard in lieu of syrup. They watch the news while they eat. More frantic dissection of what direction the country's going to go, after the attack in New York. They keep showing that clip of the smoking towers and it makes something catch in Deacon's throat. The invasion has been going well, so far. So they say. Deacon's been in a ground war where the enemy knew the home terrain. Not going to be easy.

Dean's looking out the window at the trees, not watching the news anchors. Deacon mutes the television. He doesn't want to hear it, either. "How old are you, son?" he says.

"Old enough," is the first reply, with a hint of sass, and then Dean actually looks at him. "Why?"

"Wondered how long you've been doing what you're doing," Deacon says. Dean bites his bottom lip, edge of white teeth on pink, frowns. Just looking at him is making Deacon feel like a dirty old man. "I was only in the Corps for eight years, and that was eight years too long."

"Dad said—" Dean hesitates, puts his plate on the table. "You served together, right?"

"Long time ago." Deacon rests his coffee on his belly. "Didn't answer my question."

Dean huffs. "I'm twenty-two," he says. He looks younger than the twenty-year-olds that come into the jail. Practically a cherub, except when his jaw squares in a certain way, like it does now, for no reason Deacon can see. "I've been hunting for a while. Solo hunts, lately."

"Like this one you're doing right now," Deacon says, and Dean nods and looks down at his coffee. He touches the ugly little totem hanging off his necklace, like he doesn't know he's doing it. Deacon wonders where the other boy is, what John's doing. Family business, John had said, last time they got together for a beer, and it's looking like business is booming. He could ask for details, but Dean's shoulders are hunched up as he leans onto his knees, and—well. He remembers how sour it felt to have idiot civilians ask if he'd killed anyone. Asking _how was it over there?_ Like it was a sunny vacation. He squeezes Dean's knee, ignores the startled flick of those huge pretty eyes, and stands up. "More coffee. Thanks for breakfast, kid."

"No problem," Dean says, confused.

He met both of John Winchester's boys, once. John swung through, one summer, with two little boys in tow, and through the fuzz of memory Deacon just remembers little rascals that ran around in the backyard while John drank a six pack and bought Deacon's old shotgun off him and told him all about the horrors that went bump in the night. Deacon thought he was crazy, at first, but John fixed him with that dark stare and said _they killed my wife_ , and it was so honest and awful that—well, that was that. During the war they'd had each other's backs, and Deacon had trusted John with his life then, and knew it had been reciprocated. Seemed foolish not to trust John now.

Dean disappears in the middle of the day, off on some new mysterious errand, and Deacon sits out on the porch with a book on Lincoln he's been meaning to read for about a year now, but he just drinks coffee and watches the wind sift through the trees, instead. Rain's stopped, for a little while. He tries to think back, to that brief visit, those years ago. Sam had been so little, inquisitive, asking questions about the small amount of memorabilia Deacon couldn't face getting rid of. A clear memory rises, Sam pointing at the flag and asking _what does that mean?_ and Dean slapping him over the head, for some reason, saying _semper fidelis, dummy. Always faithful._

He's still sitting out, coffee long-cold, when that big car rolls up and parks on the street. Getting toward dark, but he can still see well enough when Dean gets out, when he grabs a bag out of the trunk. "Wasn't that your daddy's car?" Deacon says, when Dean's halfway up the walk. Dean jerks his head up, surprised. "It's a beauty."

"Yeah, she is," Dean says, with an honest grin. He leans against the porch rail, smiling down at the big black shape of it, and then slides a look to Deacon. "Mine now. Better than a beater truck."

"Hey now," Deacon says, mild, and Dean's grin spreads wider. In a good mood, that's a nice surprise. The bruise on his cheek's going to yellow-green, but there's a new one on his wrist. What does the boy get up to. "It's not the looks, it's the mileage."

Dean snorts. "I bet you tell that to all the ladies," he says, eyebrows popping high.

"Nah," Deacon says, standing up. He stretches, his knee stiff. "Ladies aren't on the menu, kid."

He doesn't advertise, exactly. Dean's got to have noticed the pure lack of a feminine touch around the house. Even so, he gets a brief startled flash of eyes, Dean's plump mouth parting and no sound coming out. Deacon ignores it, easy, and grabs his coffee cup. "You're just in time," he says, pulling open the screen door. "Think the game's about to start."

Dean sneaks him looks, through the first inning, and thinks he's being subtle. Deacon drinks his beer and ignores them, and after a while there's a relaxation on the other end of the couch and Dean takes off his jacket, and starts to rag on the Braves' pitching staff. "You think they can out-pitch Randy Johnson, I've got a bridge, real cheap," Dean says, grinning around the mouth of his own beer, and Deacon smacks his arm, but he doesn't argue. That ring of bruises around Dean's wrist is very even, like someone held him tight, held him down. Can ghosts do that? Deacon doesn't know and doesn't ask. He wants to offer ice, but Dean knows where it is and he can get it if he needs it.

He works Sunday. His new associate warden's a churchgoing man and Deacon lets him have the day. He hardly sees Dean, the boy coming and going on his own schedule. He takes Monday instead, and he takes care of little chores—grabs groceries, finally heads to the hardware store to buy that damn replacement bulb for the porch—and he's thinking, maybe he can get Dean to cook something, boy clearly knows his way around the kitchen, and he's screwing in the new bulb when the big Chevy grinds up into park and Dean nearly falls out of the door. Middle of the day and no one's around, but Deacon still glances down the empty street to make sure no one sees him grab the kid and haul him up to his feet. He's grimacing, shaking a little, and he flinches away from Deacon's hand on his shoulder but doesn't make a sound. "Sorry," he gasps out.

Deacon shakes his head, tugs him a few steps further into the yard behind the trees. "Where is it?" he says, Dean sagging against him, but of course it's the shoulder. He drags him stumbling over to the porch and peels the jacket down, away, and there—big tears in the shirt, shallow seeping cuts and two big ones, blood sluggishly flowing down his arm. "What the hell," Deacon says. Looks like—a massive bird's talons, or something. Dean's sweating, pale, curled forward against Deacon's arm. "You should go to the hospital."

Not a surprise when Dean starts shaking his head, even though it makes Deacon want to shake him right back. "I can fix it," he says, thin, "I just need my bag, please—"

He presses keys into Deacon's hand and Deacon cusses but, hell, in this maybe the kid knows better than him—he runs down to the trunk and gets it open, and there's the bag along with a bloodied _machete_ , what the hell—but when he gets the bag back up to Dean the edges of the cuts are going black, sort of, unhealthy and rotted looking. Dean unzips the bag with one hand and fishes out a flask and dumps it over the cuts and they hiss, big gout of steam somehow billowing into the air. Dean grits his teeth, eyes squeezed so tight the corners of his eyes are white, and Deacon braces a hand on the back of his head and holds him through it. What the hell. When it's done the flesh is just—pink and hurt again, the blood thinned out and his shirt soaked through.

"Holy water," Dean rasps, dropping the flask. It clanks down to the porch. "Only thing that works on mephit claws."

"On—never mind." Deacon shakes his head. He tugs at Dean's shirt, the flannel ruined with the blue soaked down to black, and peels it down, and tugs the thin grey undershirt up, and his skin's still seeping, still hurts. "You're going to need stitches, here."

Dean nods, eyes closed. He looks tired. "I can handle it," he says, but he looks like he's about to fall asleep right there on Deacon's chair.

"Yeah, I bet you can," Deacon says, and gets his hands under Dean's armpits and lifts him to his feet, quick enough that Dean startles and pitches forward into him. "Come on, soldier, let's go."

Into the kitchen, down at the table. If he bleeds in here at least it'll be on the linoleum, not the admittedly unattractive carpet in the living room. Deacon sets some water to boiling on the stove, and when he turns around Dean's got a med kit out of that bag he dragged in here, flips it open to pull out real professional curved suturing needles and… dental floss. "Are you kidding me," Deacon says, but Dean ignores him. His fingers are shaking but he threads the needle, cuts it with his teeth, and he flinchingly gets through two sutures before Deacon stops him. "You're killing me, kid," he says, and takes the needle out of Dean's slippery hand.

"You done this before?" Dean says, almost conversational. Deacon's surprised to find there's no tears in his eyes. He nods, and Dean nods back, and then he buries his face in his free hand and braces and lets Deacon work. Yeah, he's done this before, though it was—thirty years ago. Longer than this boy's been alive. If he can stitch himself left handed, Deacon can certainly stretch himself to it, and he manages to make them sort of neat, mostly even, marching along the pale skin in two lines. His fingers slip a few times. He forgot how hard it was to stab through the skin. Dean's knee won't stop jogging. Deacon puts his hand heavily on it when he's done, squeezes, and Dean folds over and puts his forehead on the table, curled up.

Deacon touches the back of his neck, the soft pink shell of his ear. He's less cold than he was. "You should get cleaned up," he says, soft, and Dean makes an unintelligible sound against the table and doesn't move. He's still half-wearing that plaid shirt, his necklace flipped around so it's laying against his back. Deacon pats his good shoulder and grabs a clean cloth he won't miss, dips it in the steaming water. When it touches his skin Dean hisses and flinches away, but Deacon's stronger and holds him still, chest-down against the table while he dabs away the blood, cleans out the shallower cuts. He squirms, but he presses his forehead down against the table and stays, and that lets Deacon tug the undershirt back, get all the mess. Clean, and his skin pinked up with the heat but holding together. "Got a bandage?" Deacon says, and Dean nods against the table, breathing hard, and so Deacon goes digging through the kit to find a neat white roll. He has to help Dean ease both shirts over his shoulder. Deacon rolls a nice tight cover over the cuts while Dean looks away, his skin warm and soft under his arm every time Deacon's fingers brush it, and a butterfly clip holds everything together.

"Doesn't seem like hunting alone is such a good idea," Deacon says, mildly.

Head dropped low, Dean works his shirts down off his arms, balls them up. He really is pale, his chest and belly soft despite the muscle in his biceps. The cord around his throat bisects him sharply with black. "Wasn't my idea," he mutters, down into his lap.

Deacon lays a hand on his bare back. He gets a shuttered, quick look, and Dean sucks his lower lip into his mouth for a few seconds. "Come on," Deacon says, patting him. "You can get washed up. Get some clean clothes on and I'll make something for supper."

He pulls Dean up to his feet and sends him off down the hall. The shirts go into the trash, and he wipes up the mess on the table. It's only, god, four in the afternoon. He drags his hands through his hair, sighs. He wants to ask John what he was thinking.

Dean takes his time, long enough that Deacon's out in the living room with Moonraker on TNT and he's got the sound turned low, a beer in hand. Sun's already starting to go down. Muffled splashing stopped down in the bathroom a little while ago and he really ought to cook up that hamburger meat for the chili, but he's been stewing out here instead.

The floor squeaks, behind him. "How's the shoulder," he says, putting down his bottle, and it takes him a second to register what's in his periphery. Dean—bare-legged, in soft-washed greyish boxers and another grey undershirt, the bandage sticking out below the sleeve, his necklace righted on his chest. His hair's free of whatever gel he usually puts in it, damp and fluffed up so he looks even younger, and he's watching Deacon with his teeth dug into his lower lip, his cheeks patchy-pink. Deacon frowns at him, turning, and then—Dean goes down to his knees, there between the couch and the coffee table, puts his hand on the inside of Deacon's thigh.

His eyes are dark under that thick fringe of eyelashes, his hand sure as it slides up. Deacon freezes, just long enough that Dean's palm settles firm right over his dick, and that's where Deacon snatches his wrist, squeezes hard enough to get him to stop. The bruised one, and Dean flinches but freezes in his turn, shoulders turned in. "What the hell are you doing," Deacon gets out, and doesn't let Dean pull away when he tries. "What is this?"

"Sorry," Dean says, face turned away, pulling again, and Deacon squeezes down tighter and grabs Dean's jaw, forces him to look Deacon in the eye. He does, finally, and it's somehow defiant, even if his ears and cheeks and throat are all flooding red.

"What are you trying to pull, kid?" Deacon says.

Dean's face flinches, his free hand braced on the couch like he wants to shove away. "Sorry," he says again, angry almost, or almost hurt. "I thought you'd be into it, my mistake. Let _go_ already, or punch me and get it over with."

He's as far away from Deacon as he can get. Expecting to go down on a man and then expecting a beating—Deacon tips his chin up to the light, studies him. Dean holds his eyes, swallows with his lips firm and tight. His expression softens into confusion when Deacon slides his thumb over that smooth jaw. He wonders how often Dean has to shave. Not that often, he's guessing, not yet. "You thought, I'm gay, so I'll just go with it?" Deacon says, but he knows that's not it. Dean's arm flexes in his grip. "Or maybe you thought you were paying me back?"

Dean's eyes cut away, down. He doesn't say anything. Deacon's met his share of hustlers. Enough time on the job and they get an edge that nothing can dull. He's met his share of confused boys, too, looking for a firm hand, looking for anyone who can tell them things are going to be okay. Dean reminds him of one more than the other.

"I don't deal in trade," Deacon says. He squeezes Dean's jaw, tight, before he pushes him back and away, lets go of his arm. Dean falls on his ass, scoots backwards quick before he scrambles up to his feet. He stares at Deacon, his arm held against his belly and his mouth open, and then he turns on his heel and disappears down the hall, and the door to the guest room closes so softly Deacon barely hears it.

He blows out, slow. He wishes he still smoked. Now would be a great time for a cigarette. No matter his principles, his dick pulses, a soft heat in his belly. Been too long since he's had a hookup, much less a too-pretty-to-be-believed boy on his knees. He rubs his crotch, almost apologetic. Damn principles. He picks up his beer, drains the last few swallows, and stands up. Dinner. Even if it's awkward, they've still got to eat.

Dean doesn't emerge, though, even with the damn fine smells of cooked beef and smoky paprika wafting through the house, and Deacon eats alone at the table and leaves the rest covered up in the fridge, with a microwave bowl sitting on the counter ready to be used. The door to the guest room's still closed when Deacon wakes up for work the next morning, and it's closed when he leaves, and when he gets home that night the door's finally open and the bed's made with military precision and any trace of Dean is gone from the house. Well. That's that, Deacon thinks, but he stands in the doorway to the guest room for a long while, looking at the crisp tuck on the sheets, the smoothed-clean surface of the pillows. His mother's quilt is folded down at the end of the bed. He chews the inside of his lip, looking at it, and then closes up the door again. Leftover chili for dinner, then. He wishes he'd bought more beer on the way home.

The Diamondbacks did wipe out the Braves, pretty handily too. Embarrassing. He watches the Yankees spank the Mariners, and that means the World Series is set—Arizona versus New York. The sportscasters go on and on about what it would mean to the city to have New York win the pennant, and they show that damn footage again. Like anyone could forget the image of that smoke, having seen it once. He flips the channel to the news, and they're talking about the invasion. He turns off the television.

He can't sleep that night. It starts to rain around midnight, and he lays with his hands behind his head and listens to the drumming on the roof, and thinks back. They were just kids. Didn't feel that way, at the time. He'd been twenty-five when his number came up, and like it was nothing they put a gun in his hand and made him first sergeant. Leading the men—that's what they always said. _The men._ Maybe they grew up fast, had to in those circumstances, but in a lot of ways, in the ways that counted, they were still just those same kids. War always seems to be fought by children, on someone else's orders. What a catastrophe it is.

When he comes home the next night the Chevy's parked in front of his house. He pulls in and the headlights strafe across the empty yard, the porch. Dean's sitting on the step, shoulders hunched up against the cold night like a dog put out by unkind owners. He stands up immediately upon Deacon turning off the engine to the truck, and his chin's high even if his hands are buried in his pockets.

Deacon doesn't rush, getting out. His feet hurt. He drags the twelve-pack he bought over the bench and tucks it under his arm, and then comes and stands in front of Dean, eyebrows raised. He gets a determined stare before Dean's eyes drop to his uniform. He frowns. "You're a cop?" he says, squinting.

Deacon snorts. "Warden at the county jail," he says, and Dean's eyebrows go high before he says: "Sitting on my porch, huh?"

"Yeah," Dean says. He bites the corner of his mouth, drags his hand along his jaw. He squares his shoulders, and it's obviously a struggle to meet Deacon's eyes but he does it. "Yeah. Well, uh. I was thinking, maybe I could take a look at your truck. That squealing, usually means your belts need to be replaced."

"Is that right," Deacon says. Dean shrugs, looking down at the dying grass. Deacon really thought the boy was gone forever. He's got guts, Deacon will give him that. "Don't sit on the porch, kid. I gave you a key for a reason, people will think I'm a bad host."

Dean blinks up at him but his mouth softens, too. That turned-up coat collar, that haircut—he's trying to look so tough. He can't have any idea of how much belly he shows to the world. Deacon tucks a hand to the warm side of his neck, below the collar, squeezes light. "Come on," he says. "Cold out here."

"Yessir," Dean says, tipping in toward him, soft, but Deacon just pats the unhurt shoulder and leads the way up the steps. He's got experience with this kind of thing. Not yet.

In his barely-used pantry he's got boxes and boxes of things that never see the light of day; the toolbox clearly doesn't impress Dean, when he hauls it out, but apparently it'll do most of the job. He scheduled himself off on Friday and he sits on the porch, finally sort of reading the Lincoln biography, while Dean tears open his poor truck, right there on the lawn. All its guts out for anyone to see. He's never had a head for this kind of thing—most of his home repairs go unrepaired unless they can be fixed with a hammer—but Dean seems to have a knack for it, greasy up to the wrist but apparently content as he wrenches this and grips that, reassembles the engine apparently from the bottom up with some new parts that appeared overnight. Honestly, it's fifty fifty whether he's stealing or buying. Deacon's not sure he cares, either way, as long as Dean doesn't get caught.

Ten days, now. Dean doesn't mention his dad, or his brother. He sleeps through most mornings, and some nights Deacon comes home and Dean's making salt-filled shotgun shells on the kitchen table, knee jogging like he's got somewhere to be, but even if that cell phone's always in his pocket he never seems to get a call. No letters come, either. One night he gets home from the jail and he's dead-ass tired after two big fights nearly turned into a riot, and Dean's frying up hamburger in his kitchen, and he sits down and holds a beer in two hands and just watches the boy move. Dean doesn't ask questions, but he brings Deacon another beer just as soon as the last swallow's gone on the first, and he serves up the hamburger with noodles and some kind of spicy sauce and it's just about the best thing Deacon's eaten in weeks. Too many prison lunches. They eat quiet in the living room with one of those Lethal Weapon movies on the TV. Deacon watches Dean's bare white feet curl together on the carpet, his fingers tapping against his thigh. He wants to grab them, keep him still for a while. He thanks Dean for the meal, instead, tells him, "Nice job, son," and Dean's face goes so soft and open that Deacon nearly bears him down to the floor, wants to cover him up from the world.

It nags at him, all night. In bed he listens to Dean rustle quietly around the house. He's getting used to having the kid around. John's a good man, Deacon knows that for fact, clear and true. Maybe, though—maybe not an easy man. Not a simple man. Deacon's known boys like Dean, battered around the edges, tender like a bruise. Needing reassurance, and guidance, and a firm hand, and not knowing how to get it, and looking for it in places where the bruise will just hurt deeper. A tiny bit of help and he fell to his knees, just like that. Deacon knows he's done it before, and for who? Who's had him that easy, and what did they do once they got it?

He sits up in bed, drags his hands through his hair and holds them against the back of his head, pushing back against the pressure. He can't hear Dean. John might kill him. Then again, John never needs to know.

When he pulls his door open, the lamp's on in the guest room and Dean's sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up, a paperback folded in half in one hand, his eyes pinned to the empty wall. Deacon leans in his own doorway in the dark. He's toying with that ugly little necklace, tugging it idly against his throat. He never takes it off, nor the silver ring on his one hand.

"Can't sleep?" he says, finally, and Dean jumps. Deacon smiles at him, takes the step to stand in the light. "Thought the big-shot hunter would've been more observant."

Dean rolls his eyes, tucks the book away to his far side so Deacon can't see it. Huh. "Ha ha," he says, flat. "Used to staying up late. Grave-digging's best done at night. Not like I got a job right now, but."

He shrugs, eyes on his knees. Deacon tracks over the slumped shoulders, the energy with nowhere to go. "Your daddy hasn't called, huh," he says, and Dean's mouth twists. He looks so young. Young and unhappy.

Deacon sits on the edge of the bed, and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. He gets a still startled look, Dean's mouth parting just a touch. He holds Dean's eyes and trails his hand down to the center of his chest, spreading out, letting his hand sit heavy, and after a few seconds Dean's fingers sneak up to his wrist, hold him there.

"No trade," Deacon reminds him, quietly. Dean frowns and then his eyes go big, understanding. They're such a pretty shade of green. Everything about him is pretty. Deacon slides his thumb back and forth over the thin warm fabric. "I just want you to let me take care of things, for a while. You think you can let me?"

Color's seeping up, Dean's ears and cheeks going pink enough to be visible in the dim light. "I, uh," Dean starts, and has to lick his lips. His face tips down, his fingers so soft and light on Deacon's skin. "Don't really know what you mean."

Deacon would bet his year's salary that Dean has blown men for money, has seen things no boy should ever see. That he's killed. Still an edge of shyness, somehow, and Deacon rubs his chest, a comforting pressure. Dean's in one of his henleys, loose ripped jeans with his knees still drawn protectively up. Deacon slides his hand up his chest, careful not to tangle in the necklace, slides up the smooth white column of his throat to hold his jaw, gentle but firm. "Don't worry about it," Deacon says, easy, and Dean's eyelids dip, confused, but then this is always the part that's a negotiation, even if the boy doesn't know it. Deacon drags his thumb over Dean's cheek, barely rough with hair, and Dean's breathing is coming unsteady even now, even though all Deacon's done is touch his skin. He squeezes, like he did that night, and slides his hand back down to Dean's throat and squeezes there, so light, and watches Dean's cheeks stain darker, his eyes flooding black. Good lord above, this is going to be hell on his self-control. The things this boy would let him do.

He urges Dean down to his back, going quiet. Dean turns his face away, red-cheeked and his teeth in his lip, and Deacon lets him, for now. A heavy hand down his chest, pressing over his soft belly, and then tugging up the hem of his shirt, flat pressure on his stomach, feeling him breathe, warm skin and weight. God, he is a pretty thing. Peachy-fair, pinking up at the slightest provocation, the line of his eyelashes thick and shadowed on his cheek. Deacon slides his hand up Dean's shirt, finds one of his nipples and plays with it, rolling the tender soft of it over and over with two fingers until it's a drawn-up peak, the skin budded wrinkly-tight, and then he pinches, quick but hard, and watches Dean's face flinch but—he doesn't move, aside from his fingers curling into the blanket. Yeah. He drags his blunt nails down, catching the edge of the tender skin, and Dean breathes in shaky, and Deacon goes all the way down his belly to his belt, curving his hand quick over the warm denim and feeling the bulge there. Dean's hips twitch, arching up into him, and then he tries to flatten his hips out into the bed, trying to stay still. Deacon palms him easy, rubbing through the washed-thin cloth. He watches Dean's brow crumple, his mouth open and soft, and he squeezes the shaft where it's trapped down against his leg and rubs the bulge of his balls and slips down, further, between his thighs to press up against the thick seam, and Dean's thighs part for him, his bowed legs tipping out like Deacon asked for it, and oh, god, he's a good boy.

Dean's fingers are twitching against the bed and his hand flutters, like he wants to grab or hold, and that's when Deacon squeezes him one more time and then pulls away, back up to Dean's chin, tugging him back around and holding him still until his eyes slide open, heavy and confused. "Clothes off, baby," Deacon says, firm, and Dean stares at him for a second before he pushes up on his elbows, and it's obviously an effort. He tugs the henley off over his head, one hand keeping the necklace in place without thought. He's got a new looser bandage on his hurt shoulder, must have retied it while he was gone. A new bruise, two, quarter-sized purple on his ribs. He has to lean awkwardly to undo his belt, to unzip, but Deacon helps with that, getting up to pull his jeans off, dragging down those long legs. No underwear, just the sudden flushed swell of his dick, his balls nearly smooth, golden sparse hair on his legs, and Deacon pauses at the end of the bed and thumbs over the perfect rise of one ankle, looking him over. Makes Dean blush more, red to his collarbones. God, he is beautiful. Muscled, but not so much as to seem vain; his face almost a shock. His hand goes to his thigh, to his stomach. Nervous. Deacon could tie his wrists with the belt, keep him lashed, but he's not sure enough, yet. Maybe, with enough time.

Apparently tired of waiting, Dean sucks in a quick breath and drags himself over, arranging himself on his belly, his face buried in his left arm with his other hand gripping at the blanket. Presenting, without being asked. It's quite a view—god, just the freckled canvas of his back would be enough, but his ass curving up, his thighs parted, his balls a plush peek between. Another bruise, on the back of his thigh. Deacon wants to put his mouth there, wants to—but no, that's not what's going to happen. He drags a hand over his face, since Dean won't see, and climbs finally onto the bed, keeps on his old USMC shirt and his pajama pants and skims a hand over Dean's thigh, over the pretty swell of his ass, squeezes it, but then he says, "No," and pulls at Dean's hip. Makes him turn over again. Now Dean really is confused, an embarrassed twist to his mouth, and Deacon puts his hand on the side of Dean's neck and a thumb under his jaw and pushes his face up, makes Dean look at him up close.

"I told you," says Deacon. Dean's eyes flick back and forth between his. That green. Lord. Deacon pushes up high on his elbow, leaning over Dean, and puts two fingers to Dean's mouth. It parts, easy, and he pushes into slick warmth, dragging his fingers over the tongue, and Dean stares up at him and closes his lips, sucks tentatively, and Deacon smiles at him for it even as his dick throbs, pushing out the front of his pants. It can wait its turn. "Good boy," he murmurs, makes Dean's eyes squeeze shut but makes him grasp at Deacon's shirt, too, and when Deacon glances down his dick's still laying hard as hell against his thigh, heavy and needing. He fucks his fingers gently in and out of Dean's mouth, makes his lips shiny, and then he pulls them out and reaches down and wraps Dean in a half-slick grip, tight around the base and dragging up, so sudden that Dean gasps and breathes out a _fuck_. Deacon moves over him, finally, braces himself over Dean's body and jerks him, relentless and deep pumping, Dean's hands gripping helplessly at his arms and shirt and up at the pillow behind his head, his mouth open and his breath coming fast, but he hardly makes a sound otherwise. Deacon won't make him, that's not for now.

He braces on his knees, pushes up to straddle Dean's hips, jerking him hard. The spit's nearly dry but Dean's leaking, smearing wet all over, and he finally makes a soft deep sound in his throat and turns his face away, tries to hide, but Deacon seizes his jaw and turns him back, says, "Look at me, baby, I want to see it," in a voice that's soft but that brooks no argument, and Dean's hands come down and grip into the flannel over his thighs but he does it, he does as he's told, and Deacon squeezes his jaw in gentle warning and then drags down to pluck at his nipples, pinching and rubbing and running his nails against them, and jerking Dean all the while, and Dean's hips heave under his weight and his mouth drops open and he floods pink all the way down his chest, his fists yanking at Deacon's pants. There already, perfect thing—and Deacon spits onto his moving hand and squeezes and pulls and Dean jerks and spills white all over his own belly, silent, his eyes finally screwing shut almost in pain, and oh, god, that's a pretty sight, his stomach clenching, his dick throbbing in Deacon's hand, his teeth dug white into his lip so sore and red-looking. Ah, good lord.

Deacon jerks him through it, pulling out every wad of come the kid'll give up, and when he's shivering and twitching Deacon smears his hand through the mess and slides up to Dean's throat and takes his chin and leans down and kisses him, finally, pushing his tongue in where Dean's gasping, his lips quivering. He tries to kiss back but Deacon pulls away, slides his thumb in instead, and Dean sucks it automatically, his tongue sliding over his own taste. "Good job, that was perfect," Deacon murmurs, up close, and Dean moans finally at _that_ , hips tipping up.

God, Deacon wants to fuck him. Dean wants it, too, expects it. He pushes his thumb deeper, instead, imagines, and then tips over to one side, pulls Dean in close and hauls one of his thighs over Deacon's hip, presses his wet spent dick in against Deacon's body. Dean squirms in, body chasing the warm pressure, and then he puts his fingers to Deacon's stomach, slides down like he's going to return the favor, and no matter how much he wants to Deacon snaps a hard grip around his wrist. Dean freezes, and Deacon slips his thumb out of the boy's mouth and brushes it wet over his lips, and says, quiet against his ear, "I said no," and folds Dean's arm up against his own chest.

Dean lies rigid, uncertain, but Deacon's been here before, too. He sweeps a firm hand down his back, settles on his ass and pulls him in, pressed naked against Deacon's own warmth, held. Not pinned, not tied. Just Deacon's hands, and the weight of them settled together. They're the same height, or near enough, but Deacon tucks Dean's head down against his chest, presses his mouth into the soft of his hair. Fingers curl into his shirt and Dean shivers for some reason, but he doesn't move. Deacon smiles into his hair and says, quiet, "Try to get some sleep, baby," and Dean hitches a breath and curls his head in, but he doesn't say anything, and Deacon squeezes his hip comfortingly and waits.

An orgasm under his belt, it doesn't take long for Dean to drift off. Deacon reaches over and snaps the lamp off. He dozes for a while, too. Sweet warm body in his arms, it's not exactly a hardship. He wakes up a few times, always does during the night, and when he's sure Dean's had a few hours he starts up again, stroking his back, petting the silky skin. It's a pleasure to explore, even blind. A few small rough patches of scar tissue, here and there, and of course the bandage on the shoulder. Dean wakes up when Deacon rubs into the crack of his ass, a start and flinch that Deacon ignores, and there safe in the dark he pushes Dean onto his back and kisses him finally, not just a push of tongue but knocking him open, pinning him down and staking claim. He keeps his hand on Dean's ass, squeezing the muscle, and Dean shudders and grasps at him and lets himself be kissed, lets Deacon suck at the fat soft curve of his lower lip, tips his head up into it. He makes a little noise in his throat, his knees pulling open, and Deacon pulls away then, has to. His nose brushes Dean's, a soft touch, and then he rolls off, catches Dean's wrist and pulls him up and off the bed.

The light in the bathroom's far too bright, but it's worth it to see Dean's pale body all lit up, his dick half hard and his face pink, his eyes still bleary with tiredness, confusion, pleasure. Deacon's sure, now. The boy hasn't had this. Deacon turns the shower on and while it's heating he pushes Dean back against the sink and unwraps the bandage on his shoulder, winds the cloth off until there are the scabs, the cuts with their neat lines of stitching. Safe enough. He drops the unwound bandage in the sink and then plays with Dean's mouth, rubbing the wet pink of it with his thumb and then kissing him soft, closed-mouthed, rocking his hip against Dean's dick. When steam hits the mirror he slips off his own clothes, finally, and Dean's eyes skate over his whole body in a flash, snag on first the faded tattoo on his chest and then on his dick, heavy and wanting, and Dean's lips part but Deacon turns the boy around and pushes him toward the shower. Not yet.

Dean wets his head under the spray, tips his face into it, and doesn't resist when Deacon crowds up behind him. He slides his hands over Dean's wet shoulders, careful with the hurt one, grips his wrists, holds his hands. Picks them up and lays them flat on the tile wall, and kisses the back of his neck, and when he lets go Dean leaves his hands there, his head tucked down under the spray. They're quiet, both of them, Dean's eyes closed and his body soft. Deacon takes care of washing him, lathering him over with bare hands, slipping his fingers over Dean's throat and his nipples, over his sides, his hips, cleaning the dried come off his belly. He applies kisses to Dean's bare clean back and slips his dick up against the plush high muscle of his ass, teasing himself for a moment. Dean shudders, turning his head to one side. He drops a kiss on Dean's shoulder and covers his fingers in conditioner, and watches Dean's face while he works at his hole, firm pulsing pressure that makes Dean's fingers clutch fruitlessly at the tile, his teeth in his lip. Deacon rubs his mouth over his shoulder and pushes in, breaks him open, not harsh but not relenting, either. Dean's hands go into fists. He's hard, not just a little, and Deacon stands pressed in close with his dick riding Dean's hip and his lips on Dean's shoulder and one hand on his dick, holding him gentle, and he fucks Dean with his fingers in a steady stretching rhythm, pushing and coaxing, his knuckles bumping in and out over and over until it's loose, easy. Dean stays quiet, but his mouth's open and panting under the shower spray, and his hips work back into Deacon's fingers, and Deacon draws the orgasm out of him that way, not needing to jerk him off but simply holding him, his other hand relentless as Dean sprays the wall, and his knees almost don't hold him up but Deacon catches him around the chest, keeps him from falling. Dean sags against him, loose-limbed. Deacon nudges his cheek with his nose, kisses him there once, before he reaches over with his free hand and shuts off the shower, and Dean shivers but doesn't open his eyes.

Quick rinse and then towels, and Dean sways confused under Deacon's touch. Deacon takes him back to his own bed, this time, and lays him flat on the mattress in the mostly-dark. He tucks in close at his side, Dean's head pillowed on his arm, and with his sadly old tube of lubricant he wets three fingers and fills Dean up again, stretching him open with his thighs splayed wide. So soft on the inside, now, and beautifully warm. Dean breathes through it, wet and clean-smelling and his hands curled up on his own chest. He kisses Dean's cheek, his forehead, works him wetter, looser, and Dean lets him, entirely lax, not trying for more. "Perfect," Deacon murmurs, knocking another soft kiss against Dean's throat.

When he slips his fingers free Dean sighs. Deacon massages softly against the inside of his thighs, gentle, and then tips him onto his side, gathers him up. Dean's sex-loose, heavy-limbed, but he presses back against the thick weight of Deacon's dick anyway. He slips between Dean's thighs, soft and slicked, but even if his balls feel like they're about to pop he holds back, grits his teeth, doesn't move. Instead he lays an arm heavy over Dean's side, wraps a hand around his wrist, and the kid's so loose and drained that he falls asleep in less than a minute, drooping back into Deacon's chest. Deacon drags his nose through the soft brush of hair and looks over at his bedside clock. Four in the morning. A few more hours. He can wait that long. They both need the sleep, either way.

Raining again, when Deacon wakes up. Dawn's seeping through the curtains, clear grey, and Dean's still in the bed, curled up on the far side. His eyes are hard to read in the dim, but they're fixed on Deacon's face, and this part needs to be played carefully. This kid might need something Deacon can give, but he's not dumb. He drags a hand over his face, scraping loud on stubble, and slides down and scratches his nuts too. Heavy still, unsatisfied, though he's just sporting a half-chub of morning wood. He rubs over the line under hair under his navel and then turns his head on the pillow and looks at Dean, and he's got his lip sucked into his mouth, now, his eyes dropped low. Deacon rolls over and lays a heavy hand on Dean's side, stroking down to cup his hip. His dick is soft, pink and gently curved left over his balls. The head's about the same color as his lip when he finally lets it out from between his teeth, gently shining.

He doesn't say anything. Lets Dean look at him, lets him think, watching the knot form between his perfect brows, his eyes moving over Deacon's body under the cover of his thick lashes. What a picture.

Deacon's alarm goes off, the radio clicking on with some country song he doesn't recognize. He told the staff he was taking today, tired after the fights the day before, and that means all he has to do is lean over and turn off the sound. He has to reach over Dean, up on one elbow, and when he pulls back Dean takes a deep breath and looks at him and says, "What are we doing, man?"

"What do you think?" Deacon says. He stays up on his elbow, his weight sinking the bed, and Dean squints at him and shakes his head, tucks his chin down. "You want to ask me, you ask me."

Dean takes the crocheted edge of the pillowcase between finger and thumb, working the texture slowly. "You, um." He presses his lips together, shifts his cheek against the pillow. "You don't want to fuck me?"

Blushing up, already. If Deacon had a year with him, he couldn't get tired of those easy reactions. He reaches out and stops Dean's restlessly working fingers, makes Dean's eyes snap up to his, and then laces their fingers together and pushes, inexorable, pushing Dean over until his hand's pinned down to the mattress, his body splayed back and open for Deacon to look at, if he wants. Dean lets him, his mouth parted, his eyes half-lidded and staring up. "I want very much to fuck you," Deacon says, and feels Dean's hand spasm at the same time his eyelashes flicker. He smiles down at him, squeezes his hand, and then sits up, lets him go. "I asked you to let me take care of things. You think you can manage that?"

Dean blinks rapidly, his mouth opening before he presses it closed again, and swallows, and nods.

"Okay," Deacon says, swiping his thumb over Dean's lips. He'll never be over the pretty plush of them. Dean watches him, breathes through his nose and doesn't move, and Deacon smiles at him for it, takes his chin between thumb and forefinger and kisses him, close-mouthed, lingering for a soft second. He hums, pleased, and pats Dean on the thigh when he sits up again. "Okay, then. I've got to take a leak, and I'll shower. Why don't you make a pot of coffee for us, baby."

Phrased like a question, but he's not asking and Dean knows it, and he bites the corner of his mouth for a second before he nods. "Do you, uh," he says, and has to lick his lips before he manages to get out: "Do you want me to get dressed?"

Dean pale and naked, moving around Deacon's kitchen—his dick flexes, interested, just at the idea. Maybe Dean knows more about this kind of thing than he lets on, and Deacon wants to press him down and ask so many questions, wants to crack him open. He slides a hand over Dean's hip and stands up, instead. Dean's eyes dart down to his dick, away again. "Not too much," he says, and Dean blinks at him until Deacon grins, and Dean huffs but nods, and Deacon goes across the hall into the bathroom.

He doesn't close the door, but he doesn't watch Dean, either. While he pisses he hears the shuffle of feet on the carpet, and that means Dean's moving, doing as he's told. He's quick in the shower, still mostly clean from a few hours ago, but he takes the opportunity to shave, makes sure his jaw's smooth and won't chafe the kid's so-soft skin. Maybe that'd be fun to play with, some other time, but not today.

He tugs on his robe, ties it, goes down the hall in bare feet. Dean's leaning in the kitchen doorway, looking out to the drizzly morning through the living room windows. He's wearing boxers, and that necklace, and that's all. Nice view of the bowed-out line of his thighs. His head tips when he hears Deacon come up behind him, but he doesn't move, and Deacon runs his lips over the fine smooth line of his shoulder. "Not too cold?" he says, and Dean shrugs, and if he's comfortable enough that's all Deacon needs. The coffee's made, smelling perfect, and Deacon pours cups for the both of them and nudges Dean along into the living room, taking his usual seat and drawing Dean down, close to his side. He clicks the television on, muted, and sips at his coffee while he watches the weather report from that girl with the very stiff blonde hair, and Dean relaxes against him after a while, his bare skin cool when Deacon brushes against him. It's very good coffee, and he tells Dean so, and gets a ducked head and an almost-gruff _thanks_ in response.

The rain comes down in slow spattering that drums the roof, the awnings over the porch. Deacon turns Dean, easy pushes at his shoulders, until Dean's back fits against his side, and Deacon gets the pretty plane of it to trail his fingers over, and his front available for his other hand, and he drags his thumb around one soft nipple in a tickly drag that buds it up in record time, and traces nonsense shapes over his back, and listens to Dean's breathing change and shift, Dean's coffee cup still balanced over his knee. "Keep drinking, if you want," Deacon says, and Dean takes a sip almost on automatic, but his hand doesn't seem quite steady. He takes a deep breath, his chest moving under Deacon's hand, and Deacon doesn't let up, keeping his movements steady. "Feeling good?" he says, quietly.

Dean lets out a soft _ha_ , his shoulder moving where it's tucked under Deacon's. "Feeling smug?" he manages, and Deacon grins and presses a kiss against the back of Dean's neck, plucking lightly at the tightness of his nipple. Dean breathes out an almost-moan, his back arching slightly, and Deacon rakes his nails down Dean's back and then lays a hand flat on his spine, keeping him in place. "Driving me nuts here, man," Dean admits.

"You're doing fine," Deacon says, and kisses him again. Dean tips his head for it and fumbles his coffee down to sit on the wide flat cushion in front of his tucked-up knees, and grips the soft back of the couch instead, knuckles popping high. Deacon lifts his fingers to Dean's lips, taps lightly for entrance, and when Dean's jaw has dropped and Deacon has his fingers nice and wet, he returns to that same nipple, slicker now, and rubs those same circles. The skin has to be tender, oversensitized, but Dean only breathes heavy and leans back into him, takes it. Deacon kisses his shoulder, his ear, and then says, "Need you to be honest with me now, baby."

"What?" Dean says, confused, his face turning in. So flushed, his ear and cheek and lip so pink.

The wet's nearly dry, on his chest, and Deacon presents his fingers again, and this time he can see Dean's mouth part for them, confused. He works them inside, petting over the soft flat of his tongue, and the corner of Dean's eye goes tight when Deacon goes back to his nipple. "You've gone down on men, before," Deacon says. Dean's back goes stiff, under his other hand, but Deacon doesn't let up, swirling relentless around the wrinkled tender skin. "Gotten fucked?"

Dean hesitates, not pink now but red, and he turns his face away when he nods. Not a surprise, but Deacon's gut tightens warmly nevertheless. "How many times?" he says, conversational. "Just once, or—?"

"Why?" Dean says, uncertain, and Deacon lays his palm flat over his nipple, says, "Because I want to know," simple as that, calm and curious, and he holds still and waits with Dean trapped between his two hands, long enough that Dean finally pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slow and says, quiet, "A—a few times."

Deacon kisses his shoulder again, briefly, and rubs his thumb directly over the bud of his nipple, the skin still bullet-tight. Dean shudders, hips to shoulders, and his head drops low. A few. An understatement, or not? He doesn't know, and Dean's red and almost-ashamed, and it'd hurt him to pin it down. Deacon rubs soothingly up and down his back, traces his fingers lightly over his hurt shoulder where the stitches are still holding up, healing, up again over the back of his neck, bumping over the leather cord of his necklace. "Does your daddy know?" he says, and isn't surprised when Dean draws in a sharp hiss through his teeth and shakes his head, sharp. He drops another kiss as apology, though maybe Dean doesn't know to take it as one, and licks at the soft freckled skin this time, blowing cool over it and making goosebumps shudder up all over Dean's arms.

He wonders. Hidden, or just undiscussed, or something the boy doesn't know for himself? Works out to the same result, and Deacon's got long years behind him of the same careful negotiations, things left unsaid. His mother always lamented that he never married.

Deacon turns in, applies his mouth to the curve of Dean's neck, and lets his left hand take over plucking at Dean's nipple while the other drags down his chest, bumps the necklace and skims over fine soft belly to where his dick's standing up in his boxers. He wraps a steady grip around it through the fabric, Dean's breath hitching in his chest, and his hand fumbles to grab Deacon's forearm, holding tight. Deacon ignores it, just squeezing in steady counterpoint to his fingers working Dean's poor abused tit, his tongue gentle on Dean's pounding pulse, and Dean's making noise in his throat, his hips shifting helplessly. The cotton's getting wet, Dean leaking so much that the spot spreads down to where Deacon's holding him, and Dean's head falls back against Deacon's shoulder, his face turning in, and when he finally moans out loud Deacon releases his neck and lifts up and kisses him, off-center, his mouth slack and desperate. He squeezes hard at Deacon's arm and Deacon pulls back, says as gentle as he can, "No, sweetheart," and lets his grip go light, barely skating over the stiff wet bumping up against his palm, and Dean moans and twists toward him, but Deacon grabs his jaw quick and says, _no_ , firm, and Dean stops, his breath hitching, confused.

"Trust me," Deacon says, and Dean closes his eyes, has to breathe deep for a few seconds, but he nods finally, his head heavy in Deacon's grip. Deacon kisses his cheek, says, "Good," and Dean bites his lip and sits still when Deacon carefully moves out from behind him. He has to retie his robe, his own dick pushing out the terrycloth. He picks up Dean's coffee from the far cushion and presses it into his hand, and Dean looks up at him, bewildered, wrecked, looking like something out of the best kind of dream. His nipple's a dark, sore-looking red. Deacon bets it'd be hot and tender in his mouth, and—but no, later. "Finish your coffee. We need to eat."

Dean sits in the kitchen, shoulders hunched high, nursing another cup of coffee while Deacon fixes up simple toast, scrambled eggs. The rain stops, or at least pauses, and Deacon puts a plate in front of Dean and drags the other chair around so they're sitting at the same corner, and asks, "So, tell me about this last hunt you went on," and Dean blinks at him, frowning, but he takes the fork Deacon hands him and cautiously scoops up a bite of eggs, and says, "Um," but Deacon takes a bite of his toast and he actually is interested, and so Dean says, "Well, there were—did you hear about that guy who went missing over in Woodson?" and they eat easy together, Dean doing most of the talking. This job, it's nothing Deacon wants even a single part of—he did his time with killing, he doesn't need any more of it—but Dean's eyes light up for it, and he's grinning when he talks about setting that warehouse on fire. "That was you?" Deacon says, and Dean shrugs, sipping at his coffee, and he grins wider when Deacon only shakes his head. His smile tips into something else when Deacon slips a hand to the inside of his thigh, but Deacon says, "Didn't the alarm go off?" and Dean keeps going, talks about all his amazing abilities at breaking and entering, boasting a little, but his cheeks are pinking up again while Deacon plays with the soft high inside skin, sliding up under the leg of his boxers. He slips higher, taking the sac in careful fingers, and Dean's story stutters, his train of thought derailed. Deacon smiles at him and Dean braces his hands on the table.

"You're doing this on purpose," Dean says. Despite the accusing tone, his knees fall wider.

"I think I am," Deacon says, squeezing gently, and Dean's eyelids dip, his thighs visibly clenching. "How'd you dodge the cops?"

"Cops in Arkansas drive slow," Dean says, after a long moment, and Deacon huffs but he leans in anyway, and Dean opens up for a kiss easy enough, his hands on the table while Deacon rolls his balls softly. Dean tastes like coffee, like butter. His lashes sweep low when Deacon pulls back and he licks his lips, but he doesn't aim for more. He's learning.

Deacon slips his fingers back to the tender highest spot at the crease of his thigh and lightly massages it while he gets the end of the story—the mephit transforming, Dean shooting it with some kind of special bullet. Like something out of a comic book. "Day saved," Deacon says, and Dean shrugs. His shoulder might scar, but then that's just another day at the office. Deacon spreads his hand wide over his thigh, squeezes, and then stands up to take care of their empty plates.

When he comes back to the table Dean's watching him. He stretches out two fingers and strokes over the greenish spot on his cheek where that bruise is nearly gone, brushes over his wrist where it's still purple. Dean's eyes drop, and he lets Deacon pull him to his feet. "Why don't you go use the bathroom," Deacon says, "and then you can get cleaned up. Take your time."

Dean frowns, but he understands when Deacon pats his hip because his ears go red. "Uh, wow," he says, almost under his breath.

No sense beating around the bush, Deacon's always thought, though Dean blushing over it is—really, what has the boy been doing. He tips up Dean's chin with a finger. "Don't touch your dick," Deacon says, and Dean's eyes pool darker at the tone of it. "That's mine, you hear?"

"Okay," Dean gets out, nodding, and Deacon squeezes the side of his neck and sends him off on his way, and then he has to brace against the counter for a while and will his dick to go down, and then he goes and collects the lube from the bedroom and fills two glasses with water, and then he settles down with his Lincoln book and tries to kill some time.

He's been reading for almost an hour when the bathroom door finally cracks open. He sets the book aside. When he turns around, Dean's standing damp in the hallway, his hair ruffled wet and a towel held loosely around his hips, his shoulders and cheeks flushed. He crooks a finger and Dean comes around the wide end of the couch, stands uncertain there between the couch and the table, and Deacon doesn't waste time—he tugs at the end of the towel and Dean drops it, suddenly naked in the cool air, and Deacon pulls at his bruised wrist and Dean crawls obediently up into Deacon's lap and sets his forearms on either side of Deacon's head and bends his soft mouth down for Deacon to lick into it, plush and easy and perfect. Taste of toothpaste—oh, sweet, but Deacon holds him close by the back of his damp head and kisses him wide and open until the mint's licked nearly away and he has Dean's own spit, his mouth tingling a little and Dean breathing soft and shuddery against his lips. Deacon runs a hand up his back and Dean shivers, and Deacon murmurs, "Cold?" but Dean shakes his head, his nose brushing Deacon's. He drags his fingers down Dean's spine, firm, down over the last bump of bone, and there's the soft wrinkle of his hole. Hardly any hair, and Deacon traces his fingers back and forth, a careful tease, before he pushes Dean back by the shoulder, watching his eyes shudder open. "Get the lube for me," he says, nodding at the table, and Dean heaves in a breath and twists around, plucking the bottle off the table and pressing it into Deacon's waiting hand.

He makes Dean shuffle in closer, draped over his chest. Wet fingers and it's so easy to push in, Dean's body tightened up from last night but remembering, and Dean's so turned on after Deacon played with him all morning that he hardens up for it immediately, his dick pressing into Deacon's stomach through the robe. Two fingers and Dean curls his hand into the lapel of the robe, his forehead tucked against Deacon's throat, and Deacon lets him hide for a little while, pushing and playing, letting his knuckles bump in and out of the ridiculous heat, slippery and clean. When he pushes in a third finger Dean lets out a choked noise and Deacon pushes him upright, Dean's sac drawn up tight against the inside of Deacon's wrist, and Deacon sets his clean hand on Dean's hip and squeezes, shifting the bundle of his fingers and watching Dean's expression flicker, turned inward. His dick's hanging straight out from his body, wet shine at the tip, needy. Beautiful.

Dean's thighs shake so much when Deacon makes him stand up that he almost falls, but for Deacon's steadying hand on his hip. Deacon unties his robe, shrugs it off to hang over the back of the couch, and draws Dean down again to lay with him, his back tucked up against Deacon's chest, Deacon's knee tucked into his. The lube's smeared all over the crack of Dean's ass to his thighs, his body open, and Deacon kisses the side of his neck, his cheek, his temple, slips a hand down to his top leg and holds him open and wide and pushes inside, god, _finally_ , and the sheer delicious slick clench is nearly enough to distract him from the moan Dean bleeds into the couch cushion, his hand flailing back to grab Deacon's hip. Deacon has to keep his eyes closed, breathing deep, rocking his hips into the deep clutch of this body. Dean ripples, back shuddering, and Deacon shushes him, mouth careful against the top of his flushed ear. He picks Dean's hand off his hip and plants it against the edge of the couch cushion, holding it there while he works his dick further inside, as deep as he can go in this position, and then he holds still.

"Tell me," he murmurs, and Dean pants, not understanding. "Does it hurt?"

Dean gulps air, shakes his head, his face still tucked down against the couch.

"Good," Deacon says, and slips his arm under Dean's neck. He slides a heavy touch up Dean's arm, down his side, over his belly. Dean's body clenches around him, and he slips a grip around Dean's dick and holds it still.

He doesn't move, otherwise, and Dean tries to shift, but with his legs tangled and trapped he doesn't have leverage. "What," he whispers, and Deacon presses a soothing kiss to his hairline, gently squeezes his dick, and says, "I'll take care of it, baby," and he says, "You don't need to do a thing," and Dean looks at him over his shoulder, eyes heavy and confused, but this is it, this is what Deacon was waiting for, and he's not about to budge.

He lets go of Dean's dick and reaches forward to the table, grabs the remote. The TV clicks on, the volume still muted, and Deacon flicks through until he finds the movie channel. True Lies. Odd choice for a morning, but he drops the remote and presses a kiss against Dean's shoulder, watches the scene mutely unfold. Dean's breath is coming uneven. "Relax," Deacon says, tracing circles on Dean's hip, and Dean presses his face down into Deacon's bicep and shivers, holds.

There's a trick to this, but the drawn-out pleasure of it is well worth the challenge. Dean's wet, tight, and Deacon shifts his hips in careful slow twitches, keeping his dick interested enough to break Dean open. Not difficult, with Dean so warm and clutched greedily around the weight of him. The movie goes along, Jamie Lee and Arnold going through their silent struggles, and Deacon pays it half an eye but he's focused more on Dean, on his reactions. He squeezes Dean's dick for a while, just simple pressure up under the head, and gets the same steady weep of wet, but it's not enough to get him off. He lets that go, and lets the minutes drift past, and when Dean's breathing has evened out again he slips his fingers up to the red worried nipple, where Dean's certainly going to bruise, and he pets against it with careful circles, not pressing down, and Dean's shoulders work against him, his back arching. Deacon shushes him, gathers him close again, and catches Dean's top arm in his other hand while he goes to work on the other nipple, circles and tugging and plucking again. Dean's chest heaves, whining caught in his throat, but his dick's leaking and furious red and, well, it's a little while before Deacon lets up, and when he works his hips back and forth in a single real thrust Dean moans through gritted teeth.

Half an hour in and Dean's thighs won't stop shaking, a low-grade shiver that he can't seem to stop. Deacon's playing with his dick again, rubbing his thumb under the cut crown in slow torturous circles, letting go, doing it again. A commercial's playing and Dean tugs at his wrist in Deacon's grip, but only weakly, and Deacon bites his fingers into the bruise warningly and he subsides. Dean's started to cry—not real tears, just the wet of overstimulation that's damp and hot on Deacon's arm. "You're doing so good, baby," Deacon whispers, and Dean shudders but doesn't move again, and there, there. Deacon hums, lets go of Deans arm, and Dean lets it lay there half-hanging over the side of the couch, limp. That means Deacon's free to draw back, to lift up on his elbow, and now he can see Dean's wet face, the patchy flush streaked down to his chest. Deacon drags two fingers up and down the rigid spine of Dean's aching dick and makes Dean moan for him, and he licks a kiss against Dean's shoulder and waits, hips churning so gently it barely does anything for either of them, Dean's body so flushed and ready that it's like a fire's spilling its heat over Deacon's flesh.

It's raining again and Dean's stopped shaking, stopped crying. The movie's half over and Deacon's balls ache so much he feels like they might drop off, and that's when Deacon reaches out for the lube and slicks his hand, and starts to jerk the boy for real, squeezing tight in a real fist, slipping just over the crown on every upstroke. Dean sucks in a deep breath, surprised, and the sob he lets out when Deacon doesn't stop makes Deacon's dick flex, neglected and furious just as much as Dean's is—but oh, Dean's body comes alive, his back arching and his thighs spreading back over where Deacon's knee holds him open, his hand clutching at the couch. Deacon works him fast, the schlick of his grip loud even over Dean's sobbing breath, and it's not thirty seconds before Dean comes, his body lurching in Deacon's grip, his shoulders curled in and his thighs clenching and his ass shuddering inside, striping up the couch and his own belly and wetting Deacon's grip even more—and Deacon wraps an arm tight over Dean's hips and jerks them around on the couch, getting Dean flat on his front while he's still weakly moaning and planting a hand in his lower back and feeding his dick back inside, and fucking him, finally, _finally_ , his thigh tucked against Dean's hip and his foot on the ground to balance, and it's hard and a little brutal but Dean only moans higher for it, his face planted into the cushion and his hands weakly grasping, the back of his neck flushed red, and he's rippling still around Deacon's dick, his body still shocking through its long-denied orgasm. Head tipped back on his shoulders, eyes closed, Deacon slams in and in and churns inside Dean's so-loose worked-open body, and Dean's breathing goes high and tight and he clenches hard around Deacon, again, and oh—oh, christ—Deacon curls forward and unloads, his hand tight on the back of Dean's neck as his hips work through it, his belly shuddering, his balls aching as they give it up, and Dean breathes through it, weak, the second startling orgasm rolling through him until his muscles just give entirely up.

Deacon lets go of his neck, pets soothingly up and down his back. His balls pulse one more time, another rippling shock up into his gut. God, it's been a long time, and longer still since it was that good. Was it ever that good? He can't rightly remember. He doesn't pull out, not yet, but he leans down and presses careful kisses along the sweaty line of Dean's shoulders. Listens to his breath. Shaky, shallow. He reaches carefully under and finds Dean's chin, tugs, and Dean's face is wet, his lips so bitten that they look sore. Deacon pulls his hips back, at last, slipping free of Dean's wet, and a sluice of come follows him, Dean's rim just as sore as his mouth—and he has to help Dean turn over, the boy's muscles gone loose and useless, and his face is streaked with tears but he reaches for Deacon, and Deacon goes, of course he does. Lays right back down in their mess, covering Dean now, pressing him back into the couch, and he cups the boy's jaw in a careful hand and kisses him gentle, soft pulls of his lips that Dean barely reciprocates, but that's all right. When Dean's breathing finally evens out Deacon encourages his head down, his forehead pressed against Deacon's chest, and he's not surprised when Dean's shoulders shudder and he starts to cry again. He pets over the back of the boy's head, holds him close, and he lays there still when Dean falls asleep, overcome. He presses his mouth down into Dean's hair and keeps him warm, and does what he can to ignore the deep wave of tenderness that roars up from his gut. It's not worth thinking on. No matter that he'd keep the boy forever, if he could.

Dean wakes up silently, just the stiffening of his back a warning. Deacon squeezes his neck and then lets his grip go light, and Dean sniffs, rubs his face between them. When he peeks up, Deacon takes him in—eyelashes still clumped, cheeks red, cheeks gleaming—and then smiles, deliberately easy. "How you doing, kiddo?"

He pushes his fingers into his eye socket, rubs his knuckles in like a little boy. "Sore," he says, finally, voice hoarse and unused, and Deacon can't help but dip down and kiss his forehead again. He reaches back and gets a glass of water off the table, and helps Dean lift his shoulders enough to drink half of it—he gulps greedily, wetting his mouth. When he takes the glass away and takes a swallow for himself, Dean licks his lips, and clears his throat, and he's red and blushing again when Deacon puts the glass back down and curls back over him. It takes Deacon pushing his chin up and raising his eyebrows for Dean to gather up the words. "What was that?" he manages. "I've—I never—"

He cuts himself off, ears flaming. "I figured you hadn't," Deacon says, taking mercy. "But you did good. You did real good."

Dean's eyes dart up to his, startled surprise. Deacon rubs his thumb over Dean's lower lip. He could do this every day for a year and he doesn't know if that ache when Dean shocks at praise would ever go away. He pats Dean's hip and sits up, finally, and Dean shivers at the introduction of the cold air. "Come on," Deacon says, smiling. "Got to get cleaned up again. You're a mess, Winchester."

"That's on you, man," Dean says, shoulders relaxing a little, but his mouth quirks, and Deacon takes him to the shower and they wash up together, trading the soap back and forth, less fraught than before. He checks Dean's hole, gently, but he's fine, and Dean elbows him lightly for it. Dean tugs his boxers back on, when they're done, and he goes to try to assemble some kind of food from Deacon's kitchen, and Deacon pulls on jeans and goes and tries to clean up the destruction they've made of his couch. Not the first time he's cleaned come off of it, luckily—or not, he guesses—and with cold water it comes clean easy enough. He tosses a blanket over it, either way, and Dean comes in with macaroni stirred up with sliced turkey and toast, and they eat with their bare elbows bumping, the sound on the television turned on while another Arnold movie plays. Some kind of marathon, apparently.

There's a looseness to Dean, now. Some clenched muscle that finally relaxed, and Deacon watches him laugh at the _toomah_ line and slugs him to "keep your mouth closed when you're eating, kid," but it does him good to see it. Whatever it was that Dean needed, whatever Deacon could give him—well, it went both ways. Deacon takes the dishes, when they're done, and washes them by hand, slow, and then he stands and looks out the kitchen window for a while, leaning on the sink.

Dean sleeps in his bed that night, and the night after. It's easier, less intense, though Dean goes still and hopeful under his hands, responds like a dream to praise. Deacon fucks him in the morning before he goes to work, Dean gasping into the pillow, and when he comes home Dean's torn apart his stove and fixed the burner at the back that never has worked, and made cornbread and chili besides, and it about burns Deacon's lips off but he has to admit it's better than his own. Damn kid. He lets Dean suck his dick that night, finally, and it's—spectacular, Dean's mouth a soft wet heaven to sink into, but it's so practiced Deacon's almost violent when he pulls Dean up to kiss him after, the taste be damned. Dean blinks at him after, sore-mouthed and bewildered, and Deacon knocks the boy back onto the couch and returns the favor rather than say the things he wants to say. It's not his business.

The World Series begins and Dean's rooting vociferously for the Diamondbacks, and Deacon takes the Yankees side because of how awfully Arizona beat his Braves, but also because he can imagine all those people in New York, watching the game and hoping, thinking of anything else, for a while. Dean doesn't care about that. "Steinbrenner is the _worst_ ," is his argument, and Deacon doesn't have a rebuttal for that. He is, really, the worst.

The fourth game is on Halloween night, and Deacon doesn't usually get many kids up to his house for trick-or-treating but sometimes there are a few, so he comes home from work with a bag of decent candy. Dean tears into it immediately, and he's got two little Snickers stuffed into his mouth before Deacon spanks his ass and tells him to stop, and Dean goes pink to the collar of his plaid shirt, which is plenty interesting, but children might be present and Deacon can't investigate as he'd like to. He pours the candy into a bowl, sets it by the door, and trades his uniform for jeans and a pullover, and sure enough in the third inning the doorbell rings, and Deacon opens it to find a small ghost and a smaller vampire on his porch, mumbling out their _trick-or-treats_.

"Nice costume, dude," Dean says, to the vampire, and he crouches down and gives the boy a high-five, and gives them whole handfuls of candies into their little pumpkins.

"Hey," Deacon says, but the children squeal out thank-yous and run back down to their mama, and Deacon waves to her at the end of the drive and sighs. "I only got one bag here, kid."

"You're just hoping to save it for yourself," Dean says absently, watching Schilling sneak a curveball in for ball two. Deacon slaps Dean over the head and gets a grin, and he's watching Dean's mouth and thinking things he shouldn't be thinking when there's a buzzing, quick and insistent, and he doesn't know what's happening for a moment before Dean digs into his pocket and yanks out his phone, looking at the display for half a second before he snaps it open and says, "Dad?" his voice thin and hopeful.

He disappears out onto the porch, into the cold, and Deacon stares at the television and then mutes it, eavesdrops shamelessly. Dean's half of the conversation is mostly silent, though he drops _yessirs_ here and there. He's pacing back and forth, going in and out of the porch-light, and Deacon watches him freeze in place at whatever John says, his face an urgent tangle before it collapses in relief, and he says, for some reason, "He's okay? You sure?" His eyes close, and after whatever response he says, "Yes, sir," again, quieter, and not much after that he takes the phone from his ear and closes it between both hands, shoulders slumped.

Dean comes in after half a minute of standing silent, closing the screen door careful behind him. "Everything okay?" Deacon says.

A long pause, longer than it should be, before Dean blinks and looks up at him. "Yeah," he says, and shakes his head. "Dad wants to meet me in Amarillo tomorrow." Deacon raises his eyebrows and Dean shrugs. "Needs my help on a hunt."

Amarillo. Half a day's driving, at least. "What time are you supposed to get there?" Deacon asks, and Dean says, "Meeting the coroner at ten," absent again, his fingers playing with that necklace, and—well, then. That's—this is it.

Dean packs up his duffel, picking up the clothes spread around between the guest room and Deacon's. Ten minutes from the phone call and he's already lacing up his boots, shrugging into his jacket, and like that he's the same boy who showed up at Deacon's door, collar turned up against the world. Nearly the same.

"Deacon," Dean says, and opens his mouth, and closes it again. His bag's slung over his shoulder and he knots his fist around the straps, shakes his head.

Deacon tucks his hand along Dean's neck, below his jaw, squeezes softly. Dean tips into it, just slightly, and Deacon smiles at him. "You're welcome any time, kid," he says. "Any time. You hear?"

"Yeah," Dean says, soft. Deacon drops his hand and Dean bites his lip, but then he steps forward and wraps Deacon into a hug. His breath's warm at Deacon's throat and Deacon cups the back of his head for just a second before Dean steps back, coughs, and then he's out the door, standing on the porch and digging his car keys out of his pocket.

Deacon watches him, down the steps and down the driveway, past Deacon's own truck, and watches him stow the duffel in his trunk, and he unlocks the driver's door but pauses, looking back up at the house. "Wait," Deacon calls, and trots down across his dead grass in his socks until he's close enough to make the toss—and Dean catches the little Snickers in one hand, and looks at it in his hand with a rueful grin.

"Very generous, Scrooge McDuck," Dean says, shaking his head, but he sucks his lip into his mouth as he looks at Deacon, and then he quirks a crooked smile Deacon's way and salutes with the candy stuck between two fingers, and then he gets into the car and the engine rumbles to life. A quick turn around the street and it's gone, the black gleam of it disappearing down the hill until all Deacon can hear is the engine, and then that's gone too.

He stands there in his yard, looking down the hill. The young couple a few houses down have a jack o'lantern flickering on their part of the sidewalk. Must have been what drew the kids up here. He turns around and looks at his house. Lights on, and the porch bright, and quiet. He might as well watch the rest of the game.

The Yankees win, in a late and hard contest. Deacon finishes up his beer and pours out the rest of Dean's into the sink, and brushes his teeth, and gets ready for bed. No more kids came and he turned the porch light off an hour ago. When he turns back the blanket—a wad of black, and when he pulls it out it's—ah, Dean's undershirt. Removed in a sweaty tangle, a day ago, and forgotten in what they were doing. He looks at it for a minute, rubbing the washed-soft fabric between his fingers, and then folds it carefully and stows it in one of his own drawers. It'll be there if Dean comes back, and needs it.

Two weeks later, home from work, he gets a postcard from Amarillo, Texas. _If you ever visit Amarillo,_ it reads, in blocky capitals, _rest assured that the Very Mean Dog who lived here lives here no longer. Thx for the hotel, five stars. Dean. PS Told you the DBacks would win, you owe me._

Deacon's not aware that they had a bet. He flips the postcard over to look at the ugly buffalo picture, which has been decorated with horns and a frowning face, and snorts. He sticks the postcard to his fridge, note side out.

It stays there for a long time, until the fridge blows out a few years later, and Deacon's clearing off all the various crap that accumulated on the door. Deacon rubs his thumb over the inked-in horns, transported for an odd minute, before he drops it in the trash with the rest. Funny, he thinks. The things we hold onto. Even so, he never does get rid of the shirt.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/179339007414/one-on-two-out)


End file.
